Zenith
by Benevolent Darkness
Summary: The apocolypse. The lifting of the veil to stare at the truth, just as one stares into the abyss. Darkness will gather, and retreat. An inexplicable weight will fall upon the shoulders of mankind, and tear everything asunder. The world is both dying and being revived in an everlasting chaos. And, in the middle of it all, lies a single person. Harry Potter.
1. Skull Flowers

Good day, and welcome. I hope you like this first chapter. I tried to make it interesting and well written, so you better enjoy it. Reviews are welcome, but don't just bitch about something that doesn't go your way. Any suggestions are welcome and if there are any errors or anything like that, go ahead and mention it. If there are any problems with the way I write, put it in a review and I'll try to fix it.

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His hands hit the cold wall, again and again, plaster breaking, drywall decaying, red brick dying. Two holes, larger than hands, enlarged, bigger and bigger. Harder and harder. Blacker and blacker. The pummeling shook the room- no, the house. Debris floated from the moulding ceiling. Dust which had coated the wall blew free and scattered. Everything else was already ash. The only other thing that was concurrent was the smell of rot and death.

The beating gave was, hands only touching air. The entire wall was gone, replaced by the rot and ash everything else already was. Tears fell, and splattered on the ground. Beautiful green grass grew and then died. More ash scattered. The ceiling gave way and crashed through the floor. It dissolved before it dared touch him.

A scream of anguish erupted, and the sound of beating continued- to the left this time. Harder and harder. Faster and faster. The cadence of the drumbeat spread the smell of death farther. People watched the collapsing house. He didn't care. People whispered in fear, in awe, in languish. They screamed when they got too close. They died when they got too close. Their souls were torn apart when they got too close. When they got too close… Everything was too close.

Left hand, then right. Left again. Beat, beat, _beat_. Smash. Another wall gone. Repeat. The floor gone. The ceiling gone, too. Then the drum came from the first floor. Beat, beat, _beat._ Smash. A figure, a skeleton, walked up behind and began hitting the walls with him. It was a sign, one that showed the skeleton's desire to help. It wanted to help its master complete his job, whatever that was.

The last wall fell. There was nothing else to beat. Nothing else to grab. Nothing else to hold and cry on. There was nothing but himself and the numerous skeletons putting themselves back together from their recent deaths. He grasped at air, trying to find some purchase. He landed on his knees, hoping for a cloud to rise on. He fell on his face, wishing for the nightmare to end. Tears streamed from his eyes. With no more anger at life, flowers finally bloomed. Grass grew. Trees sprouted. A forest came to life, and the skeletons walked away, their call received.

He, Harry Potter, fucking Boy-Who-Lived, fell asleep. The place where he had no need to fear for others, the place he need not worry for destruction, faded into view. He enjoyed. Once, he smiled.

Hours, he lay still. His heavy jeans were covered in rotted soot. The over shirt smelled putrid. Black, scraggly hair frayed and parted over the lush grass and broken cement foundation. There were no cuts or punctures from the heavy landing. The sheer durability of his body insured that. Bruises were nonexistent. Not a single scratch. There was only a pristine body lying in the rubble and soot.

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This is the introduction to this story. This chapter is very, VERY short. I plan on having shorter chapters for this fic, each one averaging maybe 1000- 1500 words. Probably the size of the second chapter.

Anyway, I hope this was at least slightly enjoyable. It's a slight crossover with several other things, and if you notice what they are, then good for you.

Benedark.


	2. Medical Fraction

This is the second part of my story, I hope it's okay. This might seem a bit boring, but it is done to show a little bit more scope into Harry's abilities and power.

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There was only a pristine body lying on a white bed. A witch stood over the still form. Either Madam Pomfrey to most, or Poppy to the rest. Hands, smooth yet old and experienced, rubbed the wand in her hand. The rough texture spun slightly under her thumb, twirled side to side, side to side, around again. It chafed her hands only slightly. The demure brown was graying from the constant twisting and turning, a dirty ink rubbing off onto the otherwise perfect stick of wood.

It was a nervous habit she picked up years prior. She hadn't done it in so long, she had forgotten about it. It came and went. Her prodiginal medical ability proved to be far superior to any illness or ache or pain possible within the halls of Hogwarts. Her teacher, a man Dumbledor reminded her of greatly, nurtured her growth into the master practitioner she currently was. She had nothing to be worried about.

…Except this.

It was something she had never encountered before. The tranquility of monotony was broken under the stress of the situation. Her graying hair hung haphazardly over her shoulders as she prepared to rush back over to her notes. It was scary to see somebody react the way this boy was, and not be able to do anything about it.

Her helplessness was certainly warranted. Harry Potter's magic was rebelling. There was no other word to describe it; it seemed to lash out at everything, and was methodically killing him one piece at a time. Poppy was forced to watch his eggshell face crack and heal in an endless cycle. His black hair grayed and fell out, and then came back. Skin would blister. Blood would flow. Everything would heal, and skin would blister again.

Healing draughts cured what didn't disappear right away- long gashes that looked more like sword wounds and ethereal burns searing themselves into the cycle. Pain relievers had been administered hourly since the boy's arrival. Double dosages. Skelegrow fixed fractured bones quickly enough. Blood replenishers were crucial. Dreamless sleep, corosiscene, burn salve, stitches, sutures, green potions, red potions, black potions, plaid potions, cinnamon-smelling ones, gross-smelling ones, more dreamless sleep, everything else.

There seemed to be nothing more she could do. The boy's magic healed him as much as it destroyed him. It helped and hated him. She could do nothing more than watch, administer potions, and wait. She did what she had done the past five hours: watch, administer potions, and wait.

Oh, the time was dreadfully slow.

It was closing in on midnight, and she had nothing else to do, so she took a seat and leaned back. Notes floated through her mind. Possibilities transitioned from one form to another. A whirlwind of disconnected thoughts thrashed about. She took comfort in the twirling of her wand. Side to side, side to side, around again…

The crunching of sheets startled her awake. It was not the cracking of skin, nor the heavy moaning of pain, nor the sunlight shining painfully over her eyelids. The surrealism of such a possibility that she, _Madam Pomfrey_, falling asleep on the job was painfully embarrassing. It was also irresponsible and dangerous.

The healer ran over to the boy, legs feeling numb and fuzzy, to check his condition. A sense of vertigo hit her, blurring the world slightly, blacking it out, coming back, making her stumble. She almost fell. She nearly did.

When she finished the diagnostics and initial preparatory examination, she rushed over to her medical journal, picked up an ink quill, and with a dripping dab, began to write. _No visible scar tissue… no sign of infection… no sign of previous lacerations… no external injuries whatsoever…_ the list went on. The boy, unconscious on the bed, had absolutely no visible sign of illness. She went back to run internal procedures. More notes. _Magic strengthened… no disease, nor plague… comatose state from exhaustion?... Bodily functions pristine… nothing wrong… nothing wrong… nothing wrong…_

_Nothing wrong._

_Nothing wrong._

_…There are no visible signs of illness. There is no internal problem. There are no external problems. Every single diagnostic turned out negative. The body is functioning properly. There is absolutely nothing wrong. _Wait.

Madam Pomfrey ran back over the boy with her wand. She kneeded the wood nervously. One way. Another. The green glow followed every movement. Swoosh. Swoosh. A glide, and another. It rested above a single place for a negligible amount of time, then glided over to another. The eyes, the throat, the chest. Then, her eyes glared down at her readings. Nothing.

She roved along the spots again. Still nothing. Again. There! No. It was gone. She pushed her control to the limit, trying to find that single elusive piece of _something_. That one abnormality that plagued this child. Again. Her wand levitated over the chest and moved to the side, then down, and to the other side. The power reached and churned to the woman's will. A cacophony of light greens, emeralds, forests, and blue-greens sparkled from the exertion she shot through the focus.

"-Ahh!"

It was a short screech, cut off by the necessity of composure. With weary hands, she twisted the hand that had grabbed hers off and lay it back on the bed. In her relentless approach to the case, she had pinched one of the boy's pressure points with her magic. It caused his arm to react. It hurt. It burned.

It was what she was looking for.

She made a cursory examination of the new blackened skin on her arm. The black was slowly spreading over her skin, deforming the hand print into something else. The green of her wand slowed the spread marginally, but in that instance, she was able to get a reading of what it was. Death.

The cells were dying rapidly, increasing exponentially with every second. It was similar to the curse Tom Riddle had brewed many years ago. One would drink it, and then the skin would inevitably die until the body was exposed to the elements and die. Only, this wasn't a potion curse. This was a curse on a much deadlier level.

Magic to decay was thought to be impossible until the recent Decromenti spell was made, and even that wasn't to this extent. To produce such a powerful reaction through touch and while indisposed was unheard of.

She rushed to the medical cabinet. Hands moved swiftly, tearing the glass doors open. Fingers plucked the iodine out, pilfered from a muggle hospital, and dumped it on the cascading blackness. Another snatch into the glass case brought out a tardicatismo draught to slow the spread of the rot. It worked underefficiently. Her next snatch was for curara to lessen the throbbing, and then sejuntismo dust to isolate the occurrence. The spell corrigere revitalized the skin, somewhat. The spread of the death was stunted. A bandage and time would cure the last of the blemish.

As soon as her hand was wrapped loosely and slung so not to move or break skin, she strode back to the infirmary. She stepped through the isolation wards with nary a shiver. The watery feeling of the touch through which the wards identify a person washed over her and disappeared. Her feet gave a tap, tap, tapping on the cobblestone floor as she carried herself towards the single occupied room in the isolation wards.

The door swung open lamely, creaking slightly. Madam Pomfrey's feet carried her the last few steps before she looked up. She gasped. The unexpected sight of the upright body, sadness streaking the face and anger lashing the body, prompted her to step back. Harry Potter stared at her, seated at the foot of the bed, and spoke.

"Madam Pomfrey… please… don't come any closer…"

And the bed promptly turned to dust, along with the floor and the wards, and Harry Potter was gone.

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Was it good? I hope so. This will be the average size of a normal chapter, so this is what you can expect. If any of my other stories are anything to go by, the chapters will only get longer.

Review, so I know what to think about my writing capabilities.

Benedark.


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